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The Land of the Sun.

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle

Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime; Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime? Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams ever shine; Where the light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,

Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her bloom;
Where the citron and olive are fairest of fruit,
And the voice of the nightingale never is mute;
Where the tints of the earth, and the hues of the sky,
In colour though varied, in beauty may vie,

And the purple of ocean is deepest in dye;
Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all, save the spirit of man, is divine?

"Tis the clime of the East-'tis the Land of the Sun; Can he smile on such deeds as his children have done? Oh! wild as the accents of lovers' farewell

Are the hearts which they bear, and the tales which they tell.



Ja, Schicksal, ich verstehe dich:
Mein Glück ist nicht von dieser Welt,
Es blüht im Traum der Dichtung nur.
Du sendest mir der Schmerzen viel,
Und gibst für jedes Leid ein Lied.


Solis Regio.

Nostin' qvae regio miscet myrteta cupressis,

Indicio populi qualia facta sui;

Vulture qva sceleris furor est immanior, et qua

Solvitur in gemitus turturis instar amor?
Nostin' laeta cedris late iuga, laeta Lyaeo,

Qva cum perpetuo flore perenne iubar;
Qva zephyri errantis suaves rosa verna per hortos
Qvamlubet admissam tardat odore fugam;
Pomiferae decus est ubi citrus olivaqve silvae,

Mutaqve non unqvam vox, Philomela, tua est;
Qva, qvom terrarum color alter et alter Olympi,
Major, in ambiguo est, gloria cedat utri;
Qva rubet oceani clarissuma purpura; qvaqve
Multa rosis virgo textile nectit opus,
Nectit, et ipsa rosis est mollior: omniaqve, unam
Excipias animi vim modo, plena Deo?

Haec regio est Orientis; et haec gratissuma Phoebo:
Despicit ah populi blandus in ausa sui?

O, ut amatorum vox illa novissuma, dirum est
Qvodqve solent animo volvere, qvodqve loqvi.

H. T.


Iam scio qvid moneas. Perierunt gaudia mundi;

Somnia Pieridum sola fruenda manent.

Milia das, male fausta mihi Fortuna, malorum:
Sed cum qvoqve
malo das bene fausta melos.


John Anderson.

John Anderson my jo, John,

When we were first acquent,
Your locks were like the raven, John,
Your bonnie brow was brent;
But now your brow is bald, John,
Your locks are like the snaw;
But blessings on your frosty pow,
John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John,

We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John,

We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

The Lion and the Unicorn.

The lion and the unicorn
Were fighting for the crown;
The lion beat the unicorn
All round the town.
Some gave him white bread;
Some gave him brown;
Some gave him plum-cake,

And sent him out of town.




Pamphile, noster amor, primo mihi notus in aevo

Corvus eras crines, tempora marmor eras.

Nunc frons calva tibi, nivea est coma: sed mihi vernat Bruma tui capitis, Pamphile, noster amor.

Pamphile, noster amor, nos collem adscendimus una,
Et laeti socios vidimus ire dies:
Nosqve iter emensos nexis declive lacertis

Una qvies iunget, Pamphile, noster amor.

Grande Certamen.

Ἐμάχονθ ̓ ὁ λέων χὡ μουνόκερως
περὶ τοῦ στεφάνου·
καὶ μουνόκερων ὁ μὲν ἀντίδικος
περὶ πᾶν ᾔκιζ ̓ ἄστυ διώκων·
δὲ δωρηθεὶς ἄρτοις λευκοῖς,
φαιοῖς δ ̓ ἑτέροις, ποπάνοις τ ̓ ἄλλοις
οὕτως ἔκδημος ἐπέμφθη.



The Wronged Husband.

Had it pleased heaven

To try me with affliction; had he rained

All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head;
Steep'd me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes;
I should have found in some place of my soul

A drop of patience: but, alas, to make me
A fixed figure for the hand of scorn

To point his slow unmoving finger at,-
O! O!

Yet could I bear that too; well, very well:
But there where I have garner'd up my heart;
Where either I must live, or bear no life;
The fountain from the which my current runs,
Or else dries up; to be discarded thence!
Patience, thou young and rose-lipp'd cherubim,
Ay, there, look grim as hell!


An sie.

Deine Augen sind nicht himmelblau,
Dein Mund, er ist kein Rosenmund,
Nicht Brust und Arme Lilien.

Ach! welch ein Frühling wäre das,
Wo solche Lilien, solche Rosen
Im Thal und auf den Höhen blühten,
Und alles das ein klarer Himmel
Umfinge, wie dein blaues Aug'!


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